Helm's Deep: Fort of Men, Bane of Elves
by Redclia
Summary: FINISHED, FINALLY! The Elves return to Lothlorien after fighting in TTT. Haldir's brothers, Orophin and Rumil, talk about their brother and their own adventures. Please rr -- it's impossible to write a spoiler-free summary for this.
1. Helm's Deep

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated professionally with J.R.R. Tolkein or his works.

Summary with SPOILER: Here is _my_ Haldir piece.  Yes, I know a lot of this are popping up, but I'm hoping mine will still be unique.  It will probably be three or four chapters at the most.  Basically, Orophin and Rúmil, Haldir's two brothers (remember them from the books?) find out about their brother, and tell their own stories about what _they_ were doing when Haldir was at Helm's Deep.

_He had been reluctant at first, yes that was true enough.  But he had agreed at last to lead Elves to help the Rohan people at Helm's Deep.  Surprisingly, the archers were willing to stay in Middle-earth to fight another battle, one that many would lose.  Those killed would never see the Undying Lands that were so highly spoken of.  Now, he found himself engulfed in a nightmare he knew he could never wake from.  Screams shook the dark air, drowned out by war cries and the rain that poured from the sky.  Blades twirled and cut around him, the smooth sound of metal whirring through the air nearly filled his ears.  Few arrows whipped through the air, since most of the remaining archers had traded their bows for swords.  The Uruk-Hai had broken through the wall.  They were storming the battlements; pushing forward, black creatures against a black sky.  The words that he had heard so many times pounded in his ears, echoing. _

_            "Hope?  There is no hope."_

_            And for once, he felt these words were true.  Elves and Men were falling around him to the hooked blades of the Uruk-Hai.  The demonic creatures were snarling their way through the forces of Helm's Deep.  Then he heard the faint voice of the Rohan king, Théoden.  A second later, Aragorn hailed him from the ground._

_            "Haldir!  Pull back to the Keep!"_

_            He nodded, turning and repeating the order to the Elves around him, taking his attention away from the enemy for but a moment.  That moment was to cost him dearly.  He barely saw the charging Uruk-Hai before it attacked, but he was able to turn the blade away.  Still, it cut deeply into his arm.  This was a pain he had never felt before.  It rushed through his body, a melody singing of sharp pain and spilled blood.  And he paused, frozen by the song.  The second Uruk-Hai he did not see.  It came up behind him, twisted axe blade raised.  He caught a glimpse of Aragorn turning towards him, yelling, before the blade sliced into his back, biting deeply. _

_            For a second, there was silence.  Haldir had not made a sound when the blade had struck, and no cry came from him afterwards.  But then a new song raced through his body and mind.  Death, death, it wailed, It has come for you.  He dropped to his knees, slowly, nearly overcome with agony and shock.  He could see the dead Elves around him, lying sprawled on the stones, eyes still open in surprise, having felt a pain for the first and last times in their long lives.  The mournful song was fading; his breath grew loud in his head, slowing down, weakening.  Weakened.  Fading.  A faint gasp, a last plea for life, and he was gone.  _

Celeborn stood impassively at the gateway to his kingdom, watching the Elves returning from Helm's Deep.  So many had left to fight the Men's Battle and so few had returned.  So few were left to journey to the Havens.

            "Their sacrifice was not in vain," a soft voice said from behind him.  Without turning, he knew who it was.

            "My Lady," he replied.

            "Rohan would have been destroyed had it not been for the help of the Elves," Galadriel continued. 

            "Perhaps," he conceded. "But more than half of their numbers were lost.  Do you think it was worth the price the Elves paid?"

            "Elrond does," she replied. "And I do as well.  It is their time to rise, Celeborn."

            He was silent.  The last of the survivors were crossing back into Lórien, their polished armor now dirtied and dull.  The wounded were being carried on stretchers by their comrades, who took as much care as possible to bear them smoothly. Their eyes were downcast, their faces solemn and he knew they were grieving for those who had been lost.  Then Celeborn noticed one stretcher that was covered with a black cloth.  He raised one hand to halt the wearied bearers.

            "Who is this?"

            "It is Haldir, Lord," one of the Elves replied.

            Celeborn bowed his head.  He had not expected for his commander to die, but he realized that he knew that the chances of Haldir's survival had been slim.  He was not one to stand behind the battle, as he knew Men-kings often did, but Haldir would have stood with the Elves and fought as the soldier he was, not the leader he had become.

            "Where did he fall?" Celeborn asked.

            "On the wall, Lord," the same Elf replied.  Then he suddenly looked up at the Lord of the Galadrim and Celeborn saw that his eyes were wet and pained.

            "Orophin," he said, also seeing that the Elf was none other than one of Haldir's brothers.

            "Lord," Orophin replied. 

            Galadriel moved up to Celeborn's side, understanding in her piercing blue eyes.  She smiled faintly at Orophin, as though she were trying to comfort him.

            "My Lady," Orophin said respectfully.

            "Haldir did not die for naught, Orophin," she said softly. "Rohan will survive because of his sacrifice and the sacrifice of all those who fell with them."

            Orophin swallowed dryly. "I know," came out as nearly a whisper.

            "Dry your tears," Galadriel bade him. "Haldir will be honored, both here and in the Havens."

            "Thank you, Lady," Orophin bowed his head, feeling the weight of his brother's body pulling on his arms.  The other bearer stood silently, waiting.  Another Elf suddenly came out of the forest, his face pale with a slight confusion.  He was dressed in the light gray cloak of a sentry and carried with him a bow and quiver.

            "Orophin," he sighed softly, relieved. "You survived."

            "Rúmil," Orophin replied, greeting his only living sibling.  Rúmil had stayed in Lothlorien to guard its borders.  Then Rúmil noticed the stretcher that Orophin bore and he swayed on his feet, instant realization coming to him.

            "Haldir?" he asked faintly.

            "He was killed," Orophin said softly. 

            "When?  How?  Where?" the questions spilled from Rúmil's lips. 

            Galadriel laughed quietly, soothingly, and Rúmil seemed to notice her for the first time.  Haltingly he bowed his head and said a soft, respectful greeting.

            "Your questions will be answered in time, Rúmil," she said, "For now, let your brothers pass back into Lothlorien without such hindrance.  And then Haldir's story will be told."

            Later that night, Orophin and Rúmil sat in silence near the black cloth that still covered their brother's body.  He would not be buried until the next morning, when the earth was ready to receive such a gift.  There was a slight rustling noise nearby and both Elves looked up, but felt no malice from whatever creature was coming.  In truth, the newcomer was Celeborn himself.

            "Do not rise," he said even as they were doing so.  Instead, he seated himself with them, and looked long and hard at the covered body.

            "Many will speak of the adventures of Haldir and his downfall," the Lord began. "But what of yours?  For I do not wish for you to feel like you are less than he, whether in deeds or virtues."

            Rúmil gestured to Orophin. "You were there, Orophin.  Tell him."

            And so, Orophin opened his mouth and began to spin his own tale…


	2. Orophin

Orophin had been there, at the battle at Helm's Deep.  He had not begrudged Haldir his position as commander of the Elvish force, knowing that Haldir was picked not only for his fighting ability but also because he spoke the language of the Men as well as Elvish.  He had stood near his brother when the battle began.  Together, they had drawn their first arrows from their quivers, and with the rest of the Elves, they had fired their first shots, sending white-feathered arrows whipping into the charging ranks of the Uruk-Hai.  When the ladders had started to slam against the top of the wall, flinging Uruk-Hai down from the top rungs, he had drawn his blade with Haldir and the others.

Then he had been separated from his brother, lost in the whirl of steel and the madness of battle.  For him, it was oddly exhilarating.  It was a deadly dance of blades and blood, where one wrong step or one second of lost concentration could bring death.  And yet, it was so different from the wars of Men.  In battle, Men's minds were irrational, taking bold risks that more often than not, ended in their deaths.  Men came out of battle dirtier, more bloodied, sore and aching from wielding their swords too much.  Elves were graceful, stepping lightly through the chaos, ending a battle either unscathed or dead.

Theses musings ran in the back of his mind as he almost automatically fought off the Uruk-Hai.  A black blade swept towards him and he parried with his own sword before driving the weapon into the creature's chest.  The next Uruk-Hai came and fell and so it went.  Men often found the Elves to be cold and arrogant, unfeeling creatures.  In truth they felt pain and sorrow more keenly than humans, knowing that they would have to live for eternity with the memories of a lost friend.  But, they were expertly trained and did not allow their emotions to show when they had to fight.  This coldness aided the Elves at Helm's Deep, their efficiency greater than that of the Rohan peoples'.

He moved along the wall, hardly noticing the bodies and debris that littered the ground, his feet avoiding such obstacles.  Then he saw the Uruk-Hai with the sparking torch, running towards the tunnel.  He saw the two arrows strike the creature, saw the creature reel but not fall, saw it dive clumsily into the alcove.  The wall shuddered and then the section above the small tunnel blew out, sending large chunks of stone flying as well soldiers from both sides of the battle that were standing there.  He flinched as shards of rock flew by him, one striking his forehead, cutting a thin line.  A body flew by him, and he saw it to be that of a soldier of Rohan, bloody and limp.  He noticed that the soldier was only a child, probably the son of a farmer or farrier, a boy barely old enough to mount a horse without help.  It was then that he realized why Elves were there, at Helm's Deep, dying instead of leaving with their kin to the Havens.  If the race of Men was to survive, their children would have to be given a chance to live and grow.  If the Elves were not there, Rohan, the horse-masters, would have already fallen to Isengard.

Orophin tried to push such thoughts to the depths of his mind, trying to focus completely on the battle at hand instead of its possible outcomes.  The Uruk-Hai were pushing through, swamping the soldiers desperately trying to guard the gates.  One of Saruman's soldiers jumped up in front of him, snarling, and Orophin blocked the strong blow of the Uruk-Hai's hooked black blade with his own silver sword and slipped to the side, throwing the creature off-balance.  As the Uruk-Hai stumbled forward, he plunged the blade backwards as he passed it, stabbing deep into the creature's back. 

His feet stepped lightly, dancing through the battleground, over rock and stone and armor, away from the sweep of weapons, away from the faint whistling that signaled the arrival of a crossbow bolt.  He heard the creak and thump of the ladders, the screams of the wounded and dying, the harsh shouts of the Uruk-Hai and the roar of the battle that pounded in his ears.  It had become automatic, almost choreographed; his movements were sure and smooth, dodging and cutting, focusing not on the bodies around him that were alive and fighting, nor on those that lay on the wet stone ground.  Instead, he let the song of War carry him through the night, tirelessly pounding through him.

Only when the battle was over the following morning did he realize what had happened.  Only then did he realize how many lives had been lost and also how many had been saved.  It was when Mithrandir and the Riders arrived that he was able to allow himself to slow his pace of fighting.

After that, Aragorn came to him, a sudden sadness dropping into his eyes. "Orophin," he said slowly. "Please, follow me."

The Elf did so, sheathing his dirtied sword and shouldering his weary bow.  Aragorn led him to his brother's body, lying when Aragorn had left him the night before, surprisingly untouched by the Uruk-Hai that had swept along the wall.  Haldir's eyes were open, unblinkingly fixed on the brightening sky above, sudden pain still hidden in their depths.  Orophin knelt at his side, lifting his left arm, seeing the first wound that had distracted Haldir so much.

"He didn't have a chance," Aragorn spoke quietly. "He was struck from behind."

Orophin gently turned his brother on his side and winced at the sight of the short, deep slash in Haldir's back.  It was a well-placed blow, he had to admit, and Haldir would've died fairly quickly, but painfully.  Then the reality of what was before his eyes hit him suddenly, shockingly.  He had already seen many deaths of Orcs, of Men and of Elves, but never so closely.  The sharp pang of sorrow had never been so stabbing as it was now, holding one of his own blood in his arms.

"He…he is…so…cold," the Elf said haltingly, his hands starting to shiver.

Aragorn crouched across from Orophin, carefully locking eyes with the Lórien Elf, pulling Orophin's gaze away from his dead brother's open stare. "Orophin," he said gently, "You must go home to Lothlórien.  Where will Haldir journey to?"  

"I will take him back to Lothlórien," Orophin said brokenly. "And he will rest in the fair woods."

Aragorn did not reply vocally, only nodded and placed a comforting hand briefly on Orophin's shoulder before rising and leaving the Elf to his grief.  The small force of Elves that remained alive left Helm's Deep a few days later, and Orophin was grieving then.  He would bear Haldir's body back to the Woods, letting every step he took become an echoing memory of the Elf's life and of the lives of those many others who fell.  Grief came easily to him then, drained as he was from the fervor of the battle.  The War-song was gone and had faded to mourning.  When they had first set foot in Lórien, the trees had seemed to weep with the Elves, shedding golden and brown leaves from their reaching branches.  And this had brought some comfort to their hearts; knowing that those wounded would soon be cared for and those dead would soon be resting.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


	3. Rumil

Author's Note: Ack, this took way longer than I expected (duh, I never expect things to take as long as they do)!  Still, hope it's a good ending, and apologies to anyone who was waiting for this fic to get a last chapter! 

Rúmil was content to stay in Lothlórien, a border guard to the Elf-haven.  While both his brothers marched off to Rohan, to the fort of Helm's Deep, he stood in the trees and watched.  He was not afraid of the Uruk-Hai, nor was he too proud to fight alongside Men, but he belonged in the woods of Lórien, perhaps more than either of his brothers.  It was the trees, he had decided, the trees that held such a fascination for him.  He was closer to them than other Elves, knew their feelings more and empathized with them more than most.  That was why the attack on Lothlórien had hurt him deeply.

It had been two days after Haldir, Orophin and the others left Lothlórien when they were attacked.  Rúmil had been alone on one of the flets, within earshot of the first cry.  A shout of alarm cut through the still air and he heard a sharp whistle as an Elvish arrow left a bowstring.  A low grunt told Rúmil that the arrow had struck its target.  But it was answered with the heavy creak of Orc crossbow strings and a sharp cry pierced the treetops.  An Elf had died in the trees of Lórien.

Rúmil nearly leaped out of the tree, caution almost forgotten as he ran to the flet where the other Elf had been on guard.  A troop of Orcs was hacking at the tree with axes while a few others kindled a fire.  Rúmil did not pause to wonder why they were attacking Lórien's borders with so small a group.  He swiftly drew an arrow from his quiver, silently fitted it to the string, pulled back, aimed quickly and fired.  The arrow flew with a faint whisper from the string, speeding through the foliage to drop an Orc where it stood.  Three answering arrows darted towards him and he dropped to the ground as they flew by overhead.

A rush of air caused him to turn in surprise and it was only then that he realized that the three Orc arrows had been tipped with fire.  Autumn had drained the moisture from the foliage and the rippling tongues quickly spread over the trunk of the tree the arrows had struck.  The Elf flinched away from the flames and he could almost hear the trees crying out in pain and shock.

Two more arrows thudded into the dry leaves nearby and Rúmil struggled ungracefully to his feet, remembering that there was still an enemy to be fought.  He pulled another arrow from the quiver, carefully notching it to the string.  The slow creak of the bowstring as he pulled it back reassured him – the deceptively languid sound a reminder of the sudden deadly power of his arrows.  A second later, another Orc fell as he stooped to light an arrow's tip on fire.  He could hear them shouting, could see them glancing around, trying to find him and it seemed as if one was looking straight at him.  He fought the urge to flee though, trusting the trees to keep him hidden.

More arrows flew, and Rúmil felt the rush of heat on the right side of his face as a dry tree caught fire near him, flames racing suddenly over its branches.  He peered out at the Orcs, trying to count their number and wondering how many he could kill before they saw him.  There were close to a dozen, not including the ones that had been killed.  

            One of the Orcs – the one he thought had seen him – moved closer to his hiding place, peering suspiciously into the bushes.  Silently, Rúmil lowered his bow and drew his long knife from the sheath at his hip.  The familiar weight of the smooth wooden hilt was a comfort to him and tightened his grip on it as the Orc approached.    The creature sniffed loudly, searching, and then bent forward, squinting into the trees through the billowing smoke.  Rúmil was waiting for him.

Grabbing the Orc around the neck, he pulled him down and slid the knife into the creature's throat, swiftly cutting off his squeal of alarm.  With a grim smile of satisfaction, he dropped the corpse disdainfully on the ground and wiped his knife on the dirt.  Blinking into the smoke, he tried to count the hazy figures.  A grating creak startled him and he shrank back against the earth as a tree crashed down slowly, snapping branches on nearby trees.  There was a loud crash as the pale wooden flet shattered on the ground and Rúmil winced as he saw the body of the other guard, now partially buried by wood spars.

            The Orcs' rough cheers were interrupted by the swish of arrows cutting through the air.  Rúmil saw two of the blurred shapes spin and fall.  A hand gently touched his arm and he whirled, startled.  Another Elf crouched there, one hand raised to his lips, telling him to stay silent.

            "Help me," he whispered, indicating the half-hidden body of the Elf sentry.  Rúmil nodded and shifted aside some of the rubble, trying to ignore the panicked screeches of the Orcs behind them as Elvish arrows cut them down.  The other Elf locked his hands under the arms of the dead Elf and pulled him free.  Rúmil looked down at the pale face, lips still parted in an expression of surprise, streaks of dirt caught in his light gold hair, and he felt guilty for not feeling as much pain for the death of this Elf – someone he had not known well, but a fellow guard nonetheless – as he did for the burning of the aged trees of the woods.

            "Rúmil," the other Elf hissed. "Is something wrong?"

            He shook his head and tried to focus. "No, nothing."  Even as he said this, he glanced back with worried gray eyes at the smoldering trees and the scattered Orcs and the other Elf smiled thinly.

            "Go," he inclined his head in the direction Rúmil had been looking. "Help them."

            "Are you sure?" Rúmil's glance flickered to the body the other Elf cradled in his arms.

            "Yes.  Go."

            Rúmil nodded gratefully, sheathing his knife and shouldering his quiver as he stood, bow in hand.  He pushed through the hazy smoke, fitting an arrow to his bowstring as an Orc stumbled into his vision.  The creature looked up and his grotesque mouth opened in a mute gesture of protest before the arrow slammed into the space between his rows of teeth.  Before the body had fallen, Rúmil, in a whirl of soft gray fabric, disappeared into the smoke, searching out another foe, and another, until the carcasses of the dead Orcs and the pitiful fallen tree were all that remained of the attack on Lothlórien.

            "Why had they come?" Orophin asked softly.

            Rúmil shook his head. "We took no prisoners, but it is thought they had gotten lost and found their way here.  Perhaps they had been fighting amongst themselves and that group had chosen another path."

            "Foolish," his brother replied shortly.

            Rúmil made no reply, but glanced once again at Haldir's body, black cover darkened so much that shadows could not be seen in the pale moonlight.  "Rest well, my brother."

            Orophin reached over and took his hand comfortingly, noting how the flesh was quivering slightly. "Do not worry, Rúmil.  The darkness is retreating.  The shadows will be chased from the land by the sun.  Haldir was that light's herald.  He will survive."

            "As will we," came Rúmil's soft, almost-unheard reply. "Even if we do not live."

Endnote: Thanks to those who had the patience to wait over half a year for this to be finished! 


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